Anderson was seated behind a dark desk that stank of rich mahogany and looked to Elizabeth like it was designed by a student of gothic architecture. Even Anderson seemed comparatively normal sized behind it, although he was sipping from a coffee mug that Elizabeth fancied she could have fit her entire head inside.
“All right, Liz?” said Sean, as his assistant showed her in and closed the door behind her so quietly she almost didn’t notice. “You gonna sit down or insist on standing as usual ’cos you think it makes you look hard?”
She answered his question by stepping in front of his desk, leaning her weight upon it just to the point that it started to creak. “Since you’re in a good mood, I take it you’ve decided the fate of the Department.”
He smiled thinly up at her. “Maybe I’m just happy to see the bright, shining face of a respected colleague,” he said. “You’ve got me wrong, Liz. I don’t like playing executioner. Yeah, there’s a short-term catharsis that comes with a fresh kill, but I’d love to live in a world where no one cocks up. Could spend a lot more time with the girls.”
“When you’re ready,” said Elizabeth, unmoved. “I imagine we shall both have plenty to do today.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, we haven’t decided the fate of DEDA. There’s one more factor that hasn’t quite come to light yet.”
“What?”
“Should be coming in any moment now. Ah!”
On cue, the wolfish young man knocked once, entered, and laid a bundle of newspapers on Anderson’s desk like an Aztec priest laying a fresh human heart before the statue of his god. Elizabeth wondered if a performance was being put on for her benefit.
Anderson produced a switchblade and attacked the strap that was keeping the papers together. “Early editions,” he explained as he worked. “Time to find out what the great British public, through their representatives in our noble media outlets, thought of the little show your lot put on.”
The strap broke, and front-page headlines were vomited garishly across the desktop. Elizabeth and Anderson stared down like a pair of commanders examining a questionable battle plan.
“Not quite what I was expecting,” said Anderson. He carefully pulled one of the broadsheets out of the pile and turned to the first page.
Elizabeth looked up. “I accept responsibility,” she said. “But you have to let me meet with Shield Solutions before the changeover. There are certain essentials they must know if they mean to keep the paranormal in check.”
Anderson didn’t seem to be listening. He was leafing rapidly through the pages of his chosen newspaper, scanning each page quickly. When he reached a dense page of small, varied stories, he slapped a fat index finger onto a column in the upper right. “Ha! Page seventeen!”
Elizabeth inspected the story and found little relevance. “What is it?”
“Yesterday, someone noticed that the health minister’s wife works for the company that was catering for St. Mary’s the day everyone came down with food poisoning,” said Anderson with conspiratorial chumminess. “We were dreading that getting around, but look. Page seventeen. They might as well’ve put it in a bag of kittens and threw it in the canal.”
“And the Department?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Anderson, bored, glancing at the other headlines. “There’ll be an official dressing down, the PM’ll insist the minister show up at the office once in a while.” He shook his fingers at her dismissively as he continued reading. “You can get back to wrangling the bogeymen or whatever you’ve got planned.”
Elizabeth spread the other newspapers apart in case Anderson hadn’t yet seen them all properly. “You’re not shutting down the Department? After this, and all your threats?”
He closed the newspaper he was reading and met her gaze, amused. “I’ll let you in on a little government secret, Liz. A department that occasionally makes massive public cock-ups is slightly more useful than one that’s just generally crap.” He cocked his head towards the pile of sensationalism. “We’re gonna be getting away with some crazy shit while you’re dominating the cycle.”
Elizabeth regarded his self-satisfied grin for a moment, then turned smartly and made for the door.
“What’s the plan going forward, then?” asked Anderson conversationally, before she had limped half the distance. “Since you’re more employed than you anticipated.”
Elizabeth stopped and spoke over her shoulder. “Restaffing the school is the major concern.”
“I thought Pavani was on top of that?”
“As I said, it’s the major concern.”
81
Dad,
I am writing to let you know that I am safe, but that I can’t tell you where I am. It’s better this way. I know I have done things that you can never forgive me for. I know you’ve never been proud of me. Maybe never seeing me again will make up for it.
It was my fault that you lost your job with the Ministry. When the fluidics showed up and Henry Wollstone talked about someone hunting them, I told an internet forum that it was my dad. I suppose I wanted to impress people. They didn’t believe me, so like an idiot, I gave them proof. Someone must have passed it on to the newspapers. When you lost your job and you told me you couldn’t afford the phone upgrade I wanted, I realized I’d done wrong, and I’m sorry.
I can’t really explain why I made that video. I know Dr. Hill said I didn’t have an anxiety disorder but I checked the list of symptoms online, and I know he was wrong. It made me stop thinking straight. I suppose I thought it would help you. Maybe I thought it would give you something to investigate so you didn’t lose your drive. Or that I could draw out the real Fluidic Killer and you could get the credit. Everything got out of control when the government sent its own agents, and I suppose I panicked. Please don’t blame Mr. Cockburn. He thought he was helping both of us.
Know that I am safe and comfortable and sorry for everything I’ve done. Please don’t try to find me. I could be on the other side of the world by now.
Your son,
David Badger
82
“That’s when I realized he was hiding out at his mate Scotty’s house,” said Mike Badger, clad in his most formal outfit: a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, black jeans, and braces. “So I went down there, dragged him back, gave him a clip round the ear, and cut off his bedroom internet for the next decade.”
“I see,” said Richard Danvers. The two of them were in his office in the Department building. The door was wide open, as Danvers preferred, admitting the reassuring hum of office workers still adjusting back to routine.
“I was gonna ground ’im, but you know kids these days. They ground themselves pretty much.”
“Under the circumstances, it seems the matter is fully resolved,” said Danvers, deadpan. “Will you be bringing him with you to your new job? You’ll be a long way from home.”
“There’s things to be said for it,” mused Badger. “His mum can be a bit soft with ’im. But, nah. I’m enough bad influence, I reckon.”
There was a soft knock on the outside wall near the door, and Richard invited Nita Pavani to enter with a wave of his hand. She stepped forward confidently until she noticed Mike sprawled across the guest chair, then tottered uncertainly to a stop. “Richard?”
“Dr. Pavani, may I introduce Mike Badger?” said Danvers. “He’s the new headmaster for the school.”
Pavani froze in the act of extending a hand to shake, so Mike had to lean forward and awkwardly wobble her unresisting arm up and down.
She looked to Danvers. “Correct me if I’m wrong . . .”
“Yes, he was hunting fluidics for the Ministry, before he realized they were friendly,” said Danvers smoothly. “An honest mistake that many made, including me. The media can be very unfair on people, can’t it?” He deliberately leaned back and moved his elbow to draw attention to the newspaper on the desk in front of him.
“Y-yes, it can,” said Pavani, staring at it.
“B
ut then, I’m sure you know more about the media than I do,” said Danvers, carefully holding eye contact. “I saw you talking with the journalists. After that fiasco on the beach. You seemed to be getting along very well.”
Pavani had gone quite stiff. She clasped her hands behind her back and tried not to visibly quake. “I made some recommendations of my own for the school.”
“Yes, which we’ll mostly implement,” said Danvers, splaying his hand across a nearby printout. “Many of the teaching staff will be former freelance agents with magical infusions, and Mr. Badger has already worked alongside some of them.”
“Aye, Chris is right up for it,” offered Mike. “Says he’s gonna put a stop to the microchipping, first thing.”
Danvers gave him a brief, confused look, then turned back to Pavani. “And Aaron-Byhagthn will be there to represent the dual-consciousness perspective.” He let her boggle at him in silence for a few seconds. “I know you nominated yourself as headmistress—”
“Headmaster,” corrected Pavani sharply.
“Headmaster, but after giving it some thought, I prefer there to be a balance of viewpoints.”
Nita took two steps forward until she was directly under the ceiling light and loomed over his desk, staring him down through the deepened shadows of her face. She spoke low enough that only he could hear. “If Elizabeth thinks I’m going to—”
“Elizabeth wanted you to have the job,” muttered Danvers, matching her for pitch and volume.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“She has some changes in mind for the Department. Changes that you wouldn’t be able to influence in Devonshire.” He intensified his glare a little. “Again, I prefer a balance of viewpoints.”
She backed off, straightening her blouse and clearing her throat. “You have experience dealing with young people, Mr. Badger?”
“Oh aye, got a lad o’ me own,” said Badger happily. “Not too ’ard, is it? Clip round the ear usually sets ’em right.”
She looked to Danvers. He returned a pained smile.
83
Alison woke up an hour later and lay for a while on her side, facing the wall with her eyes tightly closed, but it was no use. She could feel the cold, accusing stare of Jessica Weatherby in the opposite bed. If anything, the atmosphere in the room had only gotten colder since yesterday.
She risked a look. To her relief, she was spared Jessica’s gaze. That relief disappeared when she realized that this was because Elizabeth Lawrence was standing in the way. She was at the foot of Jessica’s bed, scrutinizing the motionless girl with her hands clasped behind her back.
Alison sat up and pulled the sheets to her neck, embarrassed by her hospital-issue pajamas. Elizabeth turned at the sound of fluttering bed linen. “Alison.”
“Ms. Lawrence, I’m sorry,” said Alison reflexively. “I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know the significance of Jessica Weatherby’s supernatural sweating,” said Elizabeth helpfully. “You didn’t know that a dispel ritual would erase her entire personality. You didn’t know how dangerous meddling with runes can be.”
Alison stared down at her hands as they wrung fistfuls of bed linen and wondered if she could will the mattress to absorb her.
“None of which you should have been expected to know,” said Elizabeth sadly. “I take responsibility for this, Alison. It was foolish of me to make you an effective field agent before you were fully trained. God knows I shouldn’t have expected Diablerie to fill in the blanks. I suppose, in the excitement, I allowed myself to get carried away.”
If Elizabeth had ever been carried away with excitement in Alison’s presence, then it boggled the mind to imagine what she was like when she was being unusually quiet and reserved. She’d probably be declared dead. “You really think so?”
“You have made more progress with uncovering Diablerie’s agenda than any previous attempt. We know now that he has a capacity for runecrafting, which confirms that he’s not merely an imbecile. This is a thread I want to continue pulling.”
Alison’s instinctive anxiety at the thought of spending any more time around runes was quashed by the blossoms of hope. “So I’m not being fired?”
“Why should you be fired? You’ve done nothing.”
“But I—”
“You withheld information and endangered the fluidics,” continued Elizabeth, emotionless as always. “You also identified the killer and stopped them. One failing, one success. That puts you at nothing. Zero.”
“Ms. Lawrence, thank you so much,” said Alison, emotion beginning to gush out of her again. “I promise, from now on—”
“You and Diablerie will keep a lower profile,” stated Elizabeth, making no acknowledgment of Alison’s half of the conversation. “I’m starting a new investigations branch to which I mean to attach him. And when I debrief you about his activities, I shall endeavor to also answer any questions you have. About magic, the Ministry’s history, or whatever you choose. You must be brought up to speed somehow, and this would be a fairer exchange.”
Alison felt like her elation was making her hover at least an inch above the mattress, but one last outstanding issue penetrated the glittering mist. “So the Department isn’t being shut down?”
“Apparently not. Anderson’s main concern was the reaction of the press.” She produced a bundle of newspapers from behind her back. “And it seems it was not the Department most of it chose to focus on.”
She threw the papers across Alison’s legs, revealing the headlines: mind wiped for being different. deda warlock makes vegetable of unarmed dual consciousness. rogue agent delivers brutal justice.
Alison lifted the first page of the nearest newspaper and read part of a paragraph underneath. “. . . Arkin was reportedly expelled from DEDA’s training program for the magically infused after having been found to have falsified her credentials . . .” She slapped the page back down and recoiled as if from a scorpion.
“As I said, a low profile,” said Elizabeth. She stood by the window and moved the curtain aside to inspect the scene in the car park below. She blinked in mild irritation as a camera flash went off and moved the curtain back into place. “They tell me you’re clear to check out at your leisure. I advise you to do so by the rear exit.”
84
In the depths of Hampstead, an old magic shop sat on the corner of two twisting, narrow streets, displaying aged tricks and novelties that appeared deformed through the misshapen windowpanes. The shop had been there for years, and if any of the local residents had noticed that it had a curious lastability for a shop that never seemed to be open, then none of them had said anything.
Diablerie’s idiosyncratic car pulled into the narrow alley behind the shop, and Diablerie gave his cloak a slap so that it would billow impressively as he emerged from the driver’s seat. After posing heroically for a moment, for the benefit of no one, he let himself in the rear door and up a narrow flight of steps to the rooms above.
If Alison Arkin had observed Diablerie’s lodgings, she would have thought that they were utterly unsurprising. The walls were painted jet black, while the carpets and drapes were blood red and patterned with pseudomystical symbols of no genuine power or relevance. A small study was dominated by a high-backed leather armchair beside a wall of shelves loaded with dusty grimoires and specimen jars. The bedchamber was beyond what looked like a stage curtain and contained a grand four-poster bed with hundreds of skulls carved into the frame.
White candles had been placed wherever they could fit, and Diablerie patiently lit each one with a taper, stalking the perimeter of his rooms. When this task was complete, he went to the bookshelves and reached behind them, producing a rune circle on white tape.
The sequence of runes was a long and complex one. The runes had been drawn so small and cramped together that, from a distance, they resembled a solid black stripe running along the middle of the tape. He laid the circle on the floor with a flourish, sat cross-legged in the middle, and f
ished his runecrafting smartphone from his pocket. Alison had dropped it on the beach after passing out, but it functioned perfectly well despite a few drops of moisture and salt.
He set the device to play the longest chant from the app’s Favorites list, then set it down on the floor just outside the circle as it began to incant. He closed his eyes and rested the backs of his hands on his knees.
It took a full twenty minutes for the phone to repeat the chant enough times for the magic to take hold. When it did, Diablerie’s eyes flicked open, and he shot a hand out to stop the chant.
The man who rose was not the same man who had sat down. The intense glare and permanent sneer had faded from his expression. He seemed smaller for his clothes, as he was no longer throwing his shoulders back in defiance.
Stepping out of the circle, he systematically removed his top hat, his cape, his tailcoat, his scarf, and his waistcoat, laying them across the back of the armchair, before finally removing his gloves. In his shirtsleeves and tie he would have gone completely unnoticed in virtually any urban environment.
When he sat in the high-backed armchair, he seemed small enough to be consumed by it. He laboriously turned the chair to face the bookshelves, leaned forward, and spun the entire middle two shelves around to reveal a secret compartment containing nothing but a laptop computer.
He tapped the laptop’s space bar to wake it up from sleep, and a web browser appeared, displaying a chat window. Above, the title roleplay dungeon appeared in golden medieval lettering. He pulled the laptop closer and typed.
Thief: Ready for session?
The reply came within ten minutes.
Priest: Am now.
Thief: Here’s the summary of the last campaign.
Thief: My character was mistaken for the evil salamancer by Acolyte A and Priestess P and taken to the dungeons of Empress E.
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